We talk about the “friend zone” like it’s some external place we’re shoved into—like someone else stuck us there because we were too kind, too honest, too whatever. But the more I live, the more I realize that the so-called friend zone isn’t a punishment—it’s a perception. And it’s ours.
Because when you truly care about someone—not for what they might give you, but just because you see them—it doesn’t feel like a trap.
It feels like love.
Unreturned, maybe.
Unmatched, sure.
But still love.
The trap happens when longing clouds your vision.
When you start wanting so badly, you forget to see clearly.
When you start mistaking proximity for promise.
I’ve lived there.
I still find myself there sometimes.
Not just with romantic interests, but with people in general.
Longing for closeness in a world that stays at arm’s length.
It’s easy to confuse connection with possibility.
It’s easy to forget that not all closeness leads to love.
And it’s so hard to grieve something that never really existed—at least not the way you hoped it would.
As a bipolar person, balance isn’t some vague idea to me.
It’s not a mantra.
It’s a survival strategy.
Every moment, I have to monitor the scales:
My thoughts.
My perceptions.
My reactions.
If I let them tip too far—if I let myself spiral—I can hurt myself. I can hurt others. I can lose the thread of everything I’ve worked so hard to hold together.
So I take my meds.
I write.
I go to work.
I try to grow.
And I do most of it alone.
I’m close with my son.
I love my parents.
But that’s not the same as having your person.
The one who reaches for you just because they want to.
The one who says, “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
That kind of closeness feels like a fantasy sometimes.
Especially when social anxiety makes even small talk feel like an emotional obstacle course.
I can do one-on-one, but it’s draining.
I overthink every word, every silence, every exit.
And so I turn to social media.
Not because it’s real.
But because at least it gives me the illusion that I’m trying.
That I haven’t disappeared.
That maybe someone will see me.
I don’t say any of this for pity.
I’m still here.
Still trying.
Still learning how to love people without needing anything back.
Because that’s the heart of it:
Love without demand.
Care without expectation.
Connection without transaction.
It’s hard.
It hurts.
But it’s also real.
And I’d rather be real than bitter.
Even if that means loving with open hands—and sometimes, an aching heart.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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